Big Bad Academy

That would be a horrible idea that wouldn’t end well for any of us, but there’s a very strange part of me that just wants him to know.

“Hey, is everything okay over here?” Sunflower is leaning over, looking at me and my strange visitor. “Are you two all right?” She looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

“You sure? Because I can call Jenna over here if this guy is bothering you.”

Jenna is the organizer of the event and she’s thought of everything. She’s got security and she’s got snacks and water bottles and she’s got absolutely everything else anyone could possibly want or need. She’s got it all.

Do I need her security guys?

&

nbsp; The man in front of me waits. He doesn’t look at Sunflower Wilson. He just keeps staring at me like I’m the only person in this room he cares about. My panties are soaked, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. A guy like this could be very, very dangerous.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, because I can-”

“She said she’s fine,” the man snaps. He finally looks over at Sunflower, and she juts her chin out.

“Fine, then,” she tells him. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

“Pity,” he says. “Perhaps you should be.”

Then the man turns and walks away. He slips into the crowd, and both Sunflower and I stare at him until he disappears from sight.

“What the hell was that about?” She asks. Her pink hair bounces as she shakes her head. I can’t tell if she’s scared or disgusted by that man’s appearance, but one thing is for sure: he’s not a reader.

Why did he come here to ask me about my ideas?

More importantly, why do I have the feeling that this won’t be the last time I see him?

BY THE TIME THE BOOK signing ends and I’ve finished packing up my leftover books and swag, it’s nearly midnight. I’m exhausted, practically dead on my feet, and I wave goodbye to the other writers as I head back to my hotel room. My plan is to get to my room, crash with my clothes on, and get up early to shower and drive back home. I live three hours from the hotel we’re holding the event at, which means I can easily be home by noon tomorrow if I leave early enough.

Pulling my roller-suitcase that’s filled to the brim with signing supplies, I head through the hotel lobby and to the elevators. The event went better than I thought it would. A feeling of relief washes over me as I press the up button and wait patiently. The lobby is almost completely silent. There’s not even someone at the front desk. I close my eyes for a second and just take a deep breath.

This is it.

It’s over.

Everything went perfectly.

When I decided to become a paranormal romance writer, I wasn’t really sure what I was getting myself into. After all, most writers are people who love creating stories. The writers I met this weekend are all people who have known since they were kids that writing was in their blood, but me?

I’m a little different.

I went to school to become an ESL teacher. I wanted to teach English as a Second Language to kids who might not otherwise be able to learn English. After taking six years to get my bachelor’s degree, I started in the field only to discover that my nightmares were getting worse with age: not better. My therapist was the one who suggested I start writing my thoughts down and keeping a journal. I published them on a whim, my stories took off, and the rest is history.

Now I’m almost thirty and living my best life. I mean, I’m single and I have two cats as companions, but so what? People enjoy reading my stories, and even though I’m not a full-time teacher the way I planned to be, I still tutor kids a few days a week. Only now I can do it for free, so I actually feel like I’m giving back to my community.

The elevator doors ding and open. I grab my suitcase and tug, pulling it into the little box. I’ve never been the biggest fan of enclosed spaces, but this is fine. Totally fine. I push the button for the thirteenth floor and the doors close.

Only the elevator starts moving down instead of up.